For what, then, is there to wait?
For last season’s wind to abate,
For the summer that has come too late,
Or for the blossoms that have bloomed, at any rate…
Sitting amongst the greenery,
By the river that smiles serenely
At a sky, bare and lonely…
Waiting for a dream that sits idly, and
Twiddles its thumbs in mockery,
Hanging about like the last unwanted crumb.
One might well, then, say,
For Nothing, does one wait.
And for that, it is never too late.
To hope for Godot to come some day,
For the years to come by and say,
This time, let’s leave it up to fate.
So sit on the roof and watch remotely
The wind that makes the spires dance there, slowly
As in the dream told by the blackbird’s singing.
Waiting about like the hollow men, who
Still in the remnants of their souls make room
For the hope cast by illusions on the moon.
So let us wait then, let us wait,
And see how the world turns in the shade
Of the river that flows by coolly,

Of the blossoms that come and go so quickly,
Of the tolling of the bells that cry,
“Hurry up please it’s time,”

To sit by and simply watch time running,
To sit by and watch the geese come, hurrying
To keep the lone man company.

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